The More Things Change
by Wesley E. Matillies
Summary: They say truth is stranger than fiction so if truth is written as fiction will anyone believe it? Searching for inspiration, a novelist finds herself taking a leaf out of Leroux's book and turns to the Opera Populaire for inspiration. Literally. Is the Opera Ghost still hanging around or is the new patron just having a laugh? An amalgamation of many adaptaions of Phantom.
1. Chapter 1 - Where It All Began

_Author's Note: Whilst this story is based upon Leurox's original novel, it is primarily influenced by the 1990 Mini-Series starring Charles Dance as The Phantom and also contains elements of other adaptations of Phantom including (but not restricted to) Webber's stage musical and 2004 film, the Mystery Legends (Big Fish) game, the 1989 'modernised' adaptation starring Robert Englund (the original Freddy Krueger) and The Phantom of the Mall AKA Erik's Revenge._

**The More Things Change…**

Sometime in the early 21st century…

_People always tell you not to go to Paris in the spring. Or in the summer for that matter. Tourist season and all that. So I didn't. Originally, I had aimed for the end of summer and missed. Now, I wonder why more people don't purposefully visit in autumn. The gale force winds might have something to do with it. All things considered though, there is no better place to write a novel than Paris._

Mother had wanted to visit France for as long as anyone could remember so unsurprisingly, my itinerary had years of subconscious Mum, Mum, Mum influence all over it. I'm not just talking about the usual tourist traps mind you, but if your publisher is braying for a new best seller and you have writers block a mile wide, tourist traps are a pretty safe place to start inspiration hunting. In the first week I dragged myself to hilly wineries where you have to take a packed lunch with you just to get from the gate to the distillery. Then art deco alfresco cafés swarming with roly-poly pigeons who had given up flying milling around the feet of foreign plus size chimney stacks pretending to be Coco Chanel reborn and making you wish, as my Dad would have put it, that you could be a WWII zombie purely for the benefits of a gas mask. In a word – hectic. In another word – unproductive.

Finally, one Thursday morning after two weeks of pointless wanderings, of croissants, tea and take-away Chinese, I figured it was high time to go somewhere I wanted to go and if the muse struck, so be it. If not, then no biggie. Only three places came to mind; one in the Rue Plumet that had been converted to units sometime in the eighties (strike one); one in the Rue Valette that had been turned into a Maccas restaurant (strike two) and the third; well, it burnt down in the 1870s… and was rebuilt.

Only one option then.

_Autumn leaves of gold and brown littered the avenue beside the river. The tall maples glowed as the mid morning sun danced among the branches. The sharp stinging wind of a southerly change made the tall trees groan and I along with them. Aside from the distant background hum of car engines and the sounds of industry, this slither of Paris could be from any era. Convenient setting for a novelist and her novel. The ash and coal cobblestones stretched unevenly, seemingly forever, before your feet. The brick edging slightly crumbled. It was a place where you expected to see horses and carts, road side stalls selling lucky heather, ladies in bonnets carrying wicker baskets of bread. All was peaceful. Serene… _

_"Ahahaha! You're such an idiot! Ahaha! Ehehehehe! LOKI'D!"_

_…Quiet._

_Since the invention of the mobile phone, the noise of civilisation is never far away._

_Publishers wanting an update on the manuscript situation. Or lack thereof._

_An icy jolt ran right up my spine as I dropped the phone back into my coat pocket. It seemed two jackets and a jumper was not enough for autumn weather. Back home I'd be cursing the heat right about then… The feather wool scarf wound tightly around my neck seemed determined to flap along the breeze with its leafy counterparts and was silently determined to take me with it. Its soft length sulked in the pocket of my coat for the remainder of the trot up the inclined avenue. At the end of which rose the imposing façade of the Opera Populaire._

_I was greeted first by an impressive set of stone steps leading up to impossibly vast wooden doors. A few side steps around some green leafy plants in terracotta pots and I was inside the main foyer. The ceiling was so far above the floor that if you were brave enough to tilt your head right back (without falling over) you still just couldn't make out the mosaic paintings around the crystal chandelier. Believe me, I tried. None of the productions seemed particularly interesting (i.e. no __Faust__) and the theatre appeared to be open to the public anyway so I took it upon myself to conduct a solo guided tour of the place. Guided, that is, by a music player full of Webber, Sondheim and Schonberg. Do you hear the people sing?_

_The central staircase, carved of marble so wide that fourteen people could stroll comfortably beside one another down it and so tall that you needed a mountaineering certificate to get all the way to the top in one go, was much more impressive from the second floor landing. The landings had halls and the halls had doors and almost every inch of wall had paintings or statues or pot plants. Or all three. All in all, the restoration was tastefully done – only a few tacky items of 'restored' art remained. Though the same could not be said for some of their limbs… Remarkably though, I had inadvertently ended up where I wanted to be; the grand hallway via which served as an access point to the up market opera boxes._

_The hallway itself comprised of a huge expanse of oak panelling and gold leaf gilding with a full length red velvet runner atop pine floor boards. Along the left wall stood, at evenly spaced intervals of about twelve feet or so, solid oak doors with brass handles, each bearing plates engraved with a number. In the gaps between the doors hung an assortment of Renaissance and Restoration era oil paintings in matching frames. On the opposing wall sat a George IV sideboard, sixteen feet long playing host to - among other things - an assortment of decorative (wax) fruit in a silver bowl, a pair of silver candle sticks, a lace table runner, and a rather large Victorian vase of sunflowers. Above said sideboard hung a rather large arched mirror framed in the same gold as the paintings. A passing art student made some remark to his partner about the Edwardian nature of the mirror and , if you looked carefully, you could see the tiny scratch marks down by the edge where young ladies would test whether their engagements rings were real diamonds or not. Obviously he watched __Antiques Roadshow__ too. In my opinion the designer of the hall was going for look rather than continuity in era. Twin wooden doors bookended the hall. One led back to the grand staircase, the other, well, somewhere else._

_The only door I was interested in was the one marked __Box 5__. Okay, so maybe the many stories I had heard over the years had somewhat affected my curiosity but honestly, it was more the fact that out of all the boxes in this hall, __Box 5__ was not only the only one unlocked but the door was slightly ajar. And who can say no to a mysterious, unlocked, ajar door?_

_The brass of the doorknob froze the skin on my hand as I tentatively pushed into the room. I snaked first my hand around the door frame, then my head and I peered into the fabled box. The sight that met my eyes was both splendid and a little disappointing. All that was in the box was velvet and wood. Four wooden chairs with red velvet cushions. A black velvet covered footstool. Red velvet drapes. Red velvet carpet. The only thing that wasn't red or velvet was a single pair of silver opera glasses resting on the balcony ledge. Smirking a little at my own flight of fancy I hissed "Psst! Oi, Erik! You in here? Errrrrik…"_

_"Where are you looking for?" A light baritone voice with a heavy French accent inquired from somewhere behind by left shoulder. In my surprise I squeaked like a cornered rat and nearly slammed the door on my fingers. Turning around I caught sight of the cause of my mini heart attack. Not a ghost; just a common–or-garden Frenchman. Mid to late twenties by the look of him, sporting a pair of worn Levi jeans, Doc Marten sneakers, white T-shirt and a dark woollen overcoat. He smiled the way people always do after they've scared someone witless. _

_"Geez!" I snapped, anger replacing fright. "You enjoy sneaking around giving tourists heart attacks?" It was hard not to notice the mischievous twinkle that flashed in the depths of blue eyes._

_"It is nice to have a hobby." He joked. "So what are you looking for?"_

_I stuck my head into the box one final time, attempting to make my answer seem as normal as the weather forecast for Bordeaux. _

_"Oh, just looking for Erik. Box 5 was always his favourite, you know? Always sat in Box 5 and God help you if someone else nicked it first."_

_Satisfied that the room was indeed empty, I closed the door with a snap and turned to face the stranger._

_"And what would happen if someone sat in this… Erik's… box?" The man raised a bleached eyebrow._

_"Oh, well," I started gesturing, "Sometimes he'd chase them out. Scare the living daylights out of them. Sometimes if he really got pissed he's smash stuff. You know – people's legs, mirrors, chandeliers…"_

_"OH!" He exclaimed. "You're talking about the Opera Ghost. Le Fantome de l'Opera."_

_I gave him my best 'well duh!' face. Surely tonnes of people came to the opera house for that very reason. His expression became puzzled. "Why do you call him 'Erik'?"_

_"That's him name," I shrugged, "Even ghosts have names…" I added softly. "He's a man, no worse than any man…" I began to sing before my brain caught up. "No, wait, that's… sorry, wrong musical. So you work here or what?" I made a move towards the door to the grand staircase, assuming he would take the walk and talk hint._

_"Well… yes and no." He began "My family have been patrons of the opera for generations so I don't so much work here as partially own here, if you take my meaning…"_

_Neither of us noticed the man shaped shadow creeping out from under the door of Box 5…_


	2. Chapter 2 - Vicomte D'Exposition

_As we strolled down the marble staircase, __Gustave __de Chagny told me a little of his tale… Well, when I say 'a little' I mean I've abridged some of it. Well, most of it… It was a long walk._

"de Chagny? As in, like, Vicomte de Chagny?" I must say, I was a little flabbergasted. I had never even considered the possibility that the family might actually have existed. Or still exist for that matter.

"Believe it or not," he continued, "my great-great-something Grandfather was Raoul, the Vicomte de Chagny mentioned in Leurox's novel and he was the patron of the Opera Populaire until the place burnt down in the 1870s, I think it was. I don't recall him marrying a Christine Daae though he did marry an opera singer. Sophie or Suzanne, I think her name was. Might have been Helen... Anyway… and as for the Fantome, even before Leurox there had been stories of an apparition haunting the halls. Every little accident or misgiving was considered the fault of this ghost. Why, even last week the power went out halfway through the second act of Faust and those who believe in such things blamed this Famtone and those who do not still blamed the Fantome – but more in jest than in conviction. You could say it has become a tradition. I say, you've gone rather quiet."

The Vicomte's stride faltered as we descended into the main foyer.

I shoved my hands deeper into my coat pockets, fiddling with the earphones at the bottom. "I was kinda expecting to rock up, see a fake chandelier, a few dodgy looking things called art, find a lot of locked doors and barriers and signs saying 'DO NOT ENTER', 'PRIVATE', 'NO PUBLIC ENTRY' then either leave when I got bored or got thrown out," I confessed, "But instead I've run into THE REAL Vicomte de Chagny who tells me half of what I know to be fiction is based in truth, who dresses like my mates from Newie AND to top it all off, I've missed seeing Faust. AGAIN! But I suppose when you've got an opera house to yourself you can wear whatever you bloody well like and watch whatever you bloody well like whenever you bloody well want to..." And with that I glared pointedly at an armless statue. To my annoyance, he merely laughed.

"You Australians are very truthful, are you not? Now tell me, would you pass up an opportunity to see the Opera House as you would like to see it?"

I glared up at him and asked what the catch was. He called to the security guard behind the counter and within minutes I was fitted out with a CV radio, a sturdy flashlight (and by 'sturdy' I mean you can hear your muscles scream as you lift it) and a master key to the majority of the opera house. I rolled the key between my fingers. "You give master keys to any tourist who speaks her mind?" I asked, sceptically.

Again, he laughed. "Only the ones poking around _Box 5_. Besides, I have read your books; I am somewhat hoping this working progress of yours will bring new blood to the opera. Live blood that is; ghosts need not apply."

I sniggered and made some throwaway comment about free publicity and how it figured. And with that I began to make my way towards where I thought the general backstage area should have been.

"Oh yeah," I shouted back across the foyer, "If I'm not back by four, I'm either having tea with the Phantom… or I'm dead. Either way send a search party."

"Don't you Australians carry large knives in your oversized boots?" The Vicomte hollered.

Needless to say, I was suitably impressed by his Paul Hogan reference.

I had once heard tell that in the space beneath the stage all manner of props and scenery pieces are stored. So that became my primary port of call. Behind the stage itself, in an alcove away from the dressing rooms, I found an old service lift. The sides were rusted and in some places completely corroded through. The metal grate had seized in the runners and took a fair bit of shoulder force and kicking to get open. Most worryingly were the lift cables that appeared to be coated in God knew what. Looked like decades of congealed grease and yet more rust.

"Skippy to Frog. Skippy to Frog. You got your ears on? Backstage service lift: death trap or ten-four over?"

I wasn't going to wait until the metal box became a metal coffin to radio someone about it.

"Lift is a ten-four, Skippy." The Vicomte replied. "And as an aside, where did you learn… that?"

"Smokey and the Bandit." I verbally shrugged. "It's pretty quiet down here. If things should get noisy… you'll probably hear about it."

The lift was deceptively roomy on the inside. A few old managers' notes still clung to the walls along with half chewed pieces of gum. The single winch switch would not have looked out of place in Dr Frankenstein's' laboratory. A thick layer of dust and cobwebs coated it yet it still served its function. The tin box plummeted into the darkness below with my flashlight and I riding shotgun.

The safety gate opened into near total darkness. The air was thick with dust and stale as mummy bandages. The whole place was rank with damp, mould, rats and misuse. The thin tunnel of light generated by the flashlight bounced off uneven stone walls and the occasional arachnid as I searched the wall for a light switch. Conveniently, a whole row of old fashioned circular switches were mounted not four feet from the lift.

"And. Let. There. Be. Light." I emphasised each word with a switch.

Five rows of fluorescent lights flickered into life on the underside of the roof above. Definitely retro fitted. Quite pleased with myself, I turned from the wall and came nose to nose with a snarling grizzly bear. It seemed moth eaten Yogi wasn't the only hidden object in the dark. Props, bits of sets and scenery from seemingly every play, musical and opera known to France cluttered the space. It was the theatre equivalent of Grandmas' attic. There were painted trees and cardboard castles; Tutankhamen's sarcophagus propped against the wall beside a Victorian dressed mannequin holding a skull aloft; the mast of a pirate ship with a rat nibbled Jolly Roger jutted out from beneath a pile of carts and benches from a makeshift barricade. As I moved through the room I came across trinkets and baubles dumped carelessly in a heap, a smashed vial and chemistry set and more relics than the British archaeological museum could catalogue in a year. In the relative centre of the chaos rose a tall gothic mirror. Taller than the tallest man with inch thick glass dulled from grit, grime and dust. The silver stand was tarnished almost charcoal but it was still a splendid sight to behold. Three feet before the mirror, its face to the glass was a music box. THE music box. A lead figurine of a monkey in Persian robes and a Fez, playing the cymbals sitting atop a _papier__-__mâché_barrel organ. It looked like something Dr. Seuss would draw after having a nightmare about a childhood day trip to the zoo. It wasn't exactly sinister but neither did it scream 'hug me'. I was not going to pass up an opportunity to take a picture of that. Or to have a go winding it up.

Amazingly the old dust collector still worked – somewhat. I'll say one thing about automatons, creepy though they are; they sure as hell built them to last. The crank handle protruding from the side, like everything else in the room had become a haven for web weavers. Yet still it played. A tinny, haunting refrain from Masquerade echoed off the stone surrounds. I crouched, phone in hand before the monkey box, back to the mirror, attempting to line up that perfect shot. In hindsight, not the smartest thing I've ever done. Completely absorbing myself in the music and photography and paying sod all attention to anything else, that is. Not to mention the whole 'back to the mirror thing', but I am getting ahead of myself… Being observant of my surrounds was never my strong suit to begin with.

"Masquerade. Paper faces on parade." The fez wasn't quite in shot.

"Hide your face so the world…" A moving reflection in the corner of the screen caught my eye.

"…will… never… find you…" My voice was stilled by fear. The reflection in the dark screen was no longer that of the mirror alone. There was suddenly a man in the mirror. A man who was quite casually stepping forth and out from within said mirror. Right be-smegging-hind me!


	3. Chapter 3 - Creepy Masked Men In Mirrors

_The reflection in the dark screen was no longer that of the mirror alone. There was suddenly a man in the mirror. A man who was quite casually stepping forth and out from within said mirror. Right be-smegging-hind me!_

As I may have mentioned before, hindsight is a wonderful thing for it now allows me to describe what it was I saw in far greater detail than what sunk in back then at that moment in time. My mind was too busy saying 'FUCK!' over and over to do a catalogue and inventory of the sudden apparition.

This apparition was, in build, a man. Without a doubt. Strong, sturdy and about six foot two. Sweeping along the ground around his leather clad feet swirled the hem of a thick hooded travelling cloak of jet black cotton and silk. Beneath this he wore an impeccable dress suit, three piece, also in black. Rather nineteenth century in style. Although to be fair, apart from puffy sleeves and ruffles styles haven't changed all that much. His long fingers were encased in tight fitting white opera gloves.

My eyes had only gotten as far up as his neck in the second before that little nagging voice in the back of my mind stopped looping the word 'FUCK!' and started looping the word 'RUN!'. I twisted around and fell from my crouch onto my backside. Propelled by fear and fear alone, I scuttled backwards on my palms, digging my heels into the stone, trying to put as much distance between myself and the man before turning my back and bolting. Unfortunately, I only got as far as leaping to my feet before ungracefully staggering off balance right into the remains of the barricade, crashing headfirst into the side of a wooden wagon and knocking myself out cold. I never felt the second blow as I hit the stone floor.

It is quite interesting how, when a person slowly regains conciseness, the eyes are the last senses to be put back into use. It is almost as though even the most rational of minds is vainly attempting to hold on to the old denial philosophy of 'if I cannot see it, it isn't real'. My mind certainly was. As it dragged itself back from the inky darkness, the first sense my mind registered was pain. Didn't take a Holmes to figure out why. The cold and unrelenting hardness of the flagstones was making my back ache even more than my head. A head that seemed to be resting on something soft and warm… I groaned and swore and reluctantly cracked an eye open. What I saw made me almost wish I'd knocked myself out harder. The cause of my slight concussion had me cradled, almost like a child, with the base of my skull resting in the crook of his left arm but it was his face that had me worried. For what I could see of his face was mask. White porcelain that covered all but his eyes, mouth and chin. The skin around his eyes was as black as the darkness itself and had the texture of elephant hide. His eyes themselves were a peculiar shade of blue-green-gray. His hair whilst as wavy as the early summer tide seemed undecided as to whether it wanted to be ginger or brown or boring old auburn. I screwed my eyes up tighter, groaned and swore and really wished I hadn't had any bright ideas that day.

"Are you alright?" The apparition inquired. His voice was a deep tenor yet soft with an undertone of bass and gravel. The kind of voice that charms as it speaks and enthrals as it sings. His accent was… almost impossible to pin down. That kind of accent that, the more you try to categorise, the less sure you become. At first thought, he sounded British yet there were phrases that carried a distinct American twang and vice versa.

I made a non-committal noise somewhere between a 'yeah' and an 'uh-huh'. My battered brain was working overtime. I had either inadvertently come across the legendary Phantom of the Opera or some creepy psycho living out the fantasy that he was the legendary Phantom of the Opera. Either way: not good. Not good at all! Taking the hint from my groggy struggling to get away from his surprisingly comfortable arm and torso, the stranger removed it and attempted to help me stand by placing a supporting hand beneath my elbow. Seemed he took the 'I want to get off this floor' hint and not the 'I want to get away from you' hint.

"I must go now. I apologise for startling you. Are you sure you can manage?"

I stammered out a 'yeah' and just like that he turned, cape swishing, and strolled away. He had almost reached the end of the lighting when I called out that I didn't catch his name. His steps faltered but he didn't turn as he replied, 'Erik.' Then he vanished into his own shadow.

That was my cue to run. I backed out towards the exit as fast as I could gallop, slammed the lights off and sprang into the lift, half expecting the masked figure to appear everywhere I looked. I had yanked the up leaver and was halfway up the shaft before I noticed the single black rose on the floor at my feet. Despite the fear and adrenalin still pumping through me as I scooped it up I was amazed that I hadn't trampled the dainty little thing. The grill grate opened on the dressing room floor and I was out of that box like a greyhound after a rabbit.

I trampled the main staircase three steps at a time, tossed the borrowed flashlight, radio and keys on the front desk and bolted for the safety of the main doors. I had almost reached the relative safety of the threshold when…

"Did you find what you were looking for?" The Vicomte's overly cheerful voice struck me like an Olympic javelin to the back. Couldn't the fool see I just wanted to be gone from this place? I turned, being careful to hide the rose behind my back.

"Oh, you know, just some dusty props." I plastered my best 'everything is fine and dandy' face on and started back out the door.

"So you will be back tomorrow then?" He called but I was already down the steps and definitely not thinking about answering.


	4. Chapter 4 - Phones, Roses and Envelopes

"_So you will be back tomorrow then?" He called but I was already down the steps and definitely not thinking about answering._

The sky behind the Opera Populaire had already begun to darken with an oncoming storm by the time I flagged down a taxi. The ride itself was thoroughly uneventful and the driver spoke very little English. My mind spent the twilight drive through the twisting backstreets of Paris trying very hard to squash any and all memories of the previous hours. Unfortunately due to the supreme irony of the universe, the more one tries to forget the more vivid memories become. In every flash of lightning I saw a white mask. In every dark interlude I saw a black travelling coat. In every wind howl I heard a spinechilling laugh. Imagined of course. The real apparition (if that isn't a contradiction in terms) was nothing less than cordial. If you ignore the whole coming-out-of-a-mirror-and-scaring-me-half-to-death thing…

At last, the narrow streets gave way to a larger main road running alongside the valet parking of the hotel.

Despite a persistent fear of travelling in lifts during thunderstorms there was no way I was taking the stairs to the fourteenth floor. In a terrifying echo of childhood nightmares, the corridor to my suite appeared to lengthen with each step taking me further and further away. A treadmill in reverse. Knowing it was only a trick of the mind did not help. Finally I made it to the infuriating card reader that only lets you in after you've given up after the ninth attempt and chucked a tantrum. Room 1408 had never felt so secure. With the chain and deadlocks on (and being fourteen floors up) there was no way any creepy masked men in capes were gonna get anywhere near the inside of that room that night. Or so I thought.

The hotel room itself was roomier than I was used to. First on your right after entering the room was a sizable kitchenette with a bar fridge barely large enough to stand a bottle of Jack and Coke in, a sink you could sail toy boats in and a cupboard with the bare minimum of crockery, glassware and cutlery. To the left was a bathroom large enough to hold an Olympic tournament in with a proper sized bath with a shower attachment, a wall width mirror over the vanity and a towel warmer. And of course the toilet tucked away behind the door. Further into the room behind a short dividing wall: a twin set of king double beds sat comfortably against the left wall with nearly a full two feet between each other and the side walls. A long, waist height sideboard fitted with draws took up the majority of the wall opposite the beds. In the middle of the sideboard stood a fifty-two inch plasma TV which boasted seventeen channels, of which nine were sport and two were pay-to-watch. Said sideboard and surrounding floor was swamped by the contents of my suitcase which I had unceremoniously dumped out everywhere the week before when I had been looking for something. At the end of the room behind the wooden four seater dining table and matching chairs stretched large glass French doors leading out onto a small but deceptively roomy balcony. I had left the room earlier that day with the grey curtains drawn tightly shut and they had remained so.

In the small kitchenette I filled a large glass with water for the rose then carefully picked my way through the minefield of shoes and clothes to the bed furthest from the balcony, stopping only long enough to throw my coat into a heap on the other bed. I dumped the contents of my jeans pockets onto the bedside table, kicked my boots off and facepalmed into the pillow. I didn't bother getting changed; just slept where I fell.

If I had taken the time to change or even turn my head from the pillow, I would have noticed the lightning flashes illuminating a large shadow across the curtains; the shadow of a figure in a long flowing cape standing upon the patio fourteen floors up in the Parisian air.

The next morning began as uneventfully as the night before had been unsettling. I rose from the bed like a zombie from its grave (complete with groaning half-dead sound effects), staggered into the bathroom for the habitual morning shower and then stumbled out and down for breakfast in the hotel restaurant a full half hour before closing time. A record. Halfway through a second helping of eggs, the concierge materialised with a haughty little _ahem_ attempting to pass itself off as a cough, dangling my poor beaten up phone by the corner from his index and thumb as though it was a dirty little biting animal he found in the biscuit tin.

"Mademoiselle, this… item was left at reception for you."

The huge Union Flag case probably didn't help matters. I quickly palmed it into my back pocket with a general expression of thanks before inquiring as to who had left it.

"A young gentleman, mademoiselle. Well dressed and well mannered." Yeah, like that helped.

"I don't suppose he was wearing a tuxedo and a mask, any chance?" I tried to make it sound flippant, pointedly ignoring the snide remark about my dress sense and general being. The concierge just looked at me as though I had asked him to help assemble a flat-pack guillotine.

"Non, mademoiselle." He replied and left me to the remains of my breakfast.

Despite my better judgement, by midday I had returned to the Opera Populaire. If there is one thing I could not stand it was an unsolved mystery. Also I had a book to write. That was the reason for the trip in the first place and I was not leaving without at least a sketchy draft manuscript to keep the publishing vultures at bay.

The security guard at the front desk was more than helpful in pointing out places and routes of interest on my tourist map of the Opera House. Halfway through highlighting the (now disused) Prima Donna dressing room as a point of interest, a far too cheerful French voice wafted over from the stairwell.

"Ah, so you have returned! I am glad to see." The Vicomte, all smiles and hair gel, bounded over as if his shoe soles were marshmallow.

I murmured some sort of agreement and thanked him for finding my phone amongst all the other junk in the props store. He smiled and with a sweep of his hand announced that it was really no problem but he did not find the phone in the props store.

Yeah, what?

"Your phone was lying … here, on the front desk. Along with these…" Seemingly from nowhere The Vicomte produced a single white rose (dethorned) and a parchment envelope.

I took them both and murmured another thanks.

"Might I suggest," he continued, 'if I may be so bold, that the old Prima Donna dressing room would make a pretty set for at least a small chapter in the Opera House book, hmmm?"

Again, a set of master keys were dropped into my hand.

"I hope it's not as dusty as the props store." I feigned Australian bravado when, in all honesty, the little episode in the props store had left me more than a little uneasy and for all his charms and niceties there was something about the Vicomte de Chagny that just did not sit right.

"I am sure you will manage in whatever conditions you find yourself in." And with that, The Vicomte shooed me upstairs to work.


	5. Chapter 5 - Right Mirror, Wrong Room

"_I am sure you will manage in whatever conditions you find yourself in." And with that, The Vicomte shooed me upstairs to work._

The thing about maps is: they only work is you hold them the right way around. And I wasn't. After walking around, through and past dank, dark and dreary stone corridor after corridor even I had to admit that maybe – just maybe – I was lost. At the very least I was nowhere near where I wanted or had intended to be. As if the Prima Donna's dressing room would be hidden away back here with the resident bugs and dry rot.

The stone passageway suddenly turned and I found myself standing in an atrium of sorts. The walls stretched up into the dusty black, ending in – I assumed – the same cathedral style as the rest of the Opera House. Following my little torch light across the flagstone floor I made to traverse through the atrium, fanning the dust I was kicking up away from my face as I went. I stepped (and occasionally tripped) over the occasional bit of lost stone, cracked mortar, a statue limb without the rest. Was that a head? I pulled my eyes up from the marble skull of Apollo or David or whoever it was and nearly collided the opposing wall.

Except it wasn't a wall. With the torch beam I traced a long, deliberately carved crack up, across, down, across again, and then up. The outline of a door. A pair of doors, in fact; hewn into the rock. Carved into the centre at almost eyelevel for an average man recessed a large ornate rose sliced in half by the join of the doors. Flanking the rose, carvings of the Greek theatre masks. Comedy upon the left. Tragedy upon the right. Even half filled with dust they were still pretty distinctive. One might have though this place forgotten for centuries were it not for the fact that the brass doorhandles were clean. Sure they weren't see-your-face-in-them shiny but they were devoid of the dust, cobwebs and general grit and grime of everything else around them. I mean, what sort of cleaner selectively cleans? Most unusual.

I took a step back and stood staring at it. All thinking processes went into hibernation. I couldn't shake that annoying nagging feeling that something just wasn't quite right. That something was very, VERY wrong but what the hell; let's open the mysterious door anyway. What an idiot. Must have been all those detective/mystery computer games.

So I grabbed the right handle and pulled. And pulled. And pulled again. _Why don't you try pushing it you FOOL!_ Did I say that out loud or was I hearing things? I shrugged and pushed. Then it opened, grinding against the stone. Go figure. Using my shoulder as a door jamb, I snaked my torch into the room beyond, followed by my head. I couldn't see a thing! Stupid torch. A-ha! I spied a lamp beside the door. A tall, free standing light with a hanging crystal shade. Gold painted. Very tasteful. Very convenient. I peered into the hole in the top of the shade and switched it on. Chalk that up as another stupid, out of character moment I had had that week, I thought as I pummelled my palms into my eyes. Once I had regained the power of sight I blinked, bemused at what I had discovered. It was a dressing room. It was not the one I was looking for but it was more than adequate inspiration for a chapter.

Taking up the equivalent size of the door on the wall before me was a large mirror with a large frame. Well, how else was I supposed to describe it? In iambic pentameter perhaps? The mirror itself wasn't reflecting much, barely shadowy shapes. The frame was around four inches thick and made of iron or silver. I couldn't see the point of a mirror that large that didn't do what mirrors are supposed to do. Along the left wall sat a dark wooden dressing table. Upon it still sat the makeup, hairbrush, perfume and other typical dressing table things from its' previous owner, presumably. Before the table stood a pink, fluffy stool. Looked like an elephant had sat on a Tribble. It was pretty hideous. Along the opposite wall were racks of costumes; Georgian, Victorian, Elizabethan and Tudor style judging by the bustles, ruffles, lace and general look. Above and behind the racks were rows of wigs on head-shaped stands. Wigs of every colour and every style. Long plaited browns. Short curled blondes. Stacked on the floor in front of the racks were large round boxes and beside them large rectangle ones. Curious, I opened some up. To my relief, no creepy clowns or rats sprang out. The round ones were hats, the rectangle ones shoes. There must have been at least a hundred of each! I pulled out a particularly floppy black design, sat on the hideous stool before the dressing table mirror and tried it on. It flopped all right. Right down over my eyes. Amused with myself I started to giggle. Until I heard a second voice laughing at me.

With the back of my hand I levered up the front brim of the hat using the reflection in the mirror to scan the room. It was empty. I could have sworn I had heard a second giggle underneath my alto squeak. A bass tenor chuckle. I whirled around just in time to see the mirror slide backwards and to the left behind the wall leaving the frame as the edging to a stone tunnel. A stone tunnel from which a dark haired, masked, caped, impeccably dressed in an opera tux, six foot plus man was casually striding out, nonchalantly brushing a bit of stray mortar from his white opera gloves.


	6. Chapter 6 - References and Restaurants

_I whirled around just in time to see the mirror slide backwards and to the left behind the wall leaving the frame as the edging to a stone tunnel. A stone tunnel from which a dark haired, masked, caped, impeccably dressed in an opera tux, six foot plus man was casually striding out, nonchalantly brushing a bit of stray mortar from his white opera gloves._

"DUDE! WHAT IS IT with YOU and MIRRORS?!" I practically howled at him as I rightened myself on the stool I had nearly toppled backwards off. Having once already come across this apparition and survived relatively intact, any fear I had translated over into mild annoyance and anger. To his credit, the new addition to the décor looked rather taken aback and sheepishly peered down at the floor. Didn't last long though.

"I was not expecting company," His tone was, on the surface, perfectly civil but it dripped with something else. Something darker and more annoyed. "And my name is Erik."

I muttered something that sounded like "Yeah… Heard you last time…" and put the floppy hat back in its box. I was already regretting my outburst. After all, it's not like he'd really done anything to warrant the Aussie Bush Wrath. Apart from scaring the living daylights out of me. Besides, being the resident ghost has got to be a lonely life, hasn't it?

"I'm not supposed to be here, am I?" I sighed as I replaced the box on the pile.

He barked out a no.

"Right then. I shall leave you in peace." I took my cue to exist stage left with my head bowed and my torch on. My reaction must have stunned him for he did not move until I was halfway across the atrium and accelerating. The padding of leather soles, a swirl of cloth, and then a voice projecting out over the threshold bounced off my retreating back.

"Forgive me, mademoiselle. I intended no offence. Please…"

"Goodbye Erik." I did not stop. I did not look back. I was too proud to show I cared.

I regretted leaving Erik that day without so much as a name to know me by. In many ways I still do. Yet, if I hadn't, the extraordinary events that followed might not have occurred and I certainly would not be putting pen to paper to tell you about them, for there would be nothing to tell. But again, I am getting ahead of myself.

After extricating myself from the back-halls of the Opera House, I ran into the Vicomte de Chagny. Again. Seriously, that guy must do laps of the Opera House – poking his nose into every room and making airy comments as he goes. I found him loitering around the chorus dressing rooms whistling something insufferably cheery. I was not as loath to share his company as the afternoon before and after the obligatory chit chat;

"Did you discover your muse in the Prima Donna rooms?"

"No, I got lost and found dusty spider nests instead."

He invited me to dinner. Not having any plans that didn't involve room service or take away, I accepted.

"Nice car, Vicomte." I remarked as his personal valet picked us up in a race red McLaren F1 that was WAY too clean to be believable.

"How many times must I ask you to call me Gustave?" The Vicomte assumed a stance of mock offence as he made a great show of shooing away his valet in order to open the door for me instead with a great flourish of his arm.

I flopped ungracefully onto the leather. "At least once more Vicomte, as always." I smirked up from under the door frame. I never thought I would actually get to use that quote in relatively normal conversation.

The Vicomte grinned down from his perched point atop the open door, chin resting on his folded arms. "Pirates of the Caribbean. Good film." He lifted his arms from the door and made to close it. "I understood that reference." His mock seriousness was shattered by a huge self-satisfied grin.

I waited until he had hefted himself onto the other seat before I affirmed that I had understood his reference. The Vicomte then said some stuff to his driver in French that I probably wouldn't have understood even if I had been listening properly and the McLaren growled and stalked off down the avenue. I asked where we were going. The Vicomte replied that we were going to a favourite restaurant of his.

I looked down at my faded brown trench-coat with the missing button, the belt threads hanging down and the tea stain on the collar; my dark boot-cut jeans with the worn-out knees and the mud on the hem; my flat ankle-cut black synthetic boots with the toes scrubbed out; and had a panicked moment when I couldn't remember if, under my red knitted turtle-neck, I was wearing the 2-sizes-too-big athletics shirt or the class of '89 print with most of the writing rubbed off.

"I'm not really dressed for a restaurant, French or no." I stammered.

"Neither am I." He assured me, gesturing to his faded blue jeans, beat-up Doc Martins and woollen overcoat. "Don't worry – it's not a suit-and-tie joint anyway." He dropped his pseudo-swanky American imitation to add, "'Joint' is the right word, is it not?"

I laughed and turned my attention to the streets of Paris. Watching a never-ending snake of taxi-cabs, 2CV's, Skodas and the occasional Lamborghini flash past. It really was beautiful that time of year. Gale-force winds and all.

"I wish you lot drove on the RIGHT side of the road here. As in, the LEFT."


End file.
